In the Night
by Allegra Allonsy
Summary: While attending her grandmother's funeral, seventeen-year-old Clara Vance can't shake the feeling that something isn't quite right about Ramsey and Jonah Aickman and sets out to uncover their secret.
1. Chapter 1

A big thanks goes to Jo Nahmanaick for reading and encouraging.

* * *

If there had ever been a time for God to strike me down where I stood, that time was now. It was absolutely miserable, this funeral. I had loved my grandmother dearly of course, but all of the sniffling and sobbing was more than I could handle. I was the kind to keep my emotions private; public emotional displays made me uncomfortable. When my mother told me that my grandmother had passed, I promptly fled to my room and cried for three hours. After that I refused to think of her death. I wanted only to remember her as the spirited, loving, and jovial woman she had been before she had gotten sick. I wanted to remember the way she threw her head back when she laughed and the deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth that meant she had lived a happy life. I wanted to remember the way she and my grandfather danced before he died. Although their clothes were worn and plain, when my grandparents danced they were a vision of royalty.

The woman in the casket lying before me was not my grandmother. This woman was a shadow of who my grandmother had been. The lines of her face were straight and stark. This woman was cold, still, and solemn. My grandmother had been none of those things. After paying my respects to the lady in the neatly-pleated grey dress, I left the parlor to find a place that felt less heavy. That surely would not be a fruitful search in a funeral home, however, especially this one. The air was stale and smelled like spoiled milk and old paper with a vague hint of lavender. It was unnaturally cold.

I sat down on a settee just outside the parlor and contemplated my surroundings. There was another parlor room across from me, although this one was empty. I knew from whispers heard around town that the room before me was where Ramsey and Jonah Aickman held their séances. My mother strongly disapproved of Mr. Aickman's side business. She was a very strict Christian woman who believed anything supernatural to be evidence of the Devil's presence. On numerous occasions I had heard her refer to the Aickmans as Satanists. She had agreed to arrange my grandmother's funeral through the Aickman Mortuary for the sole reason that the next closest funeral home was nearly two hours away. She had not wanted to travel that far.

Despite my mother's warnings not to talk to or have anything to do with Jonah Aickman, I found him strangely intriguing. I had gone to school with him until a few months ago, when Mr. Aickman had decided to homeschool him. Jonah was tormented relentlessly at school, both for his eccentricities and later for his involvement in Aickman's séances. I could not say that I had been a friend to Jonah; I had simply been among the few who had chosen not to bother him. He was a quiet, smart, handsome boy scarcely much older than me. He kept to himself and for understandable reasons. How could one expect to have normal friendships when you were known to everyone as a boy medium?

At that moment my younger sister, Edith, traipsed out of the parlor. She was looking at the ground, rubbing her eyes and sniffling.

"Clara, I want to go home..." she whined, coming to sit beside me on the settee. Edith was eight years old with a headful of brown ringlets and wide blue eyes. Already she was prized as the beauty of the family, whereas I and my fourteen-year-old sister Louisa were regarded as plain and ordinary. My stomach twinged with jealousy each time Louisa and I were compared to Edith; it just seemed unfair to be compared to an eight-year-old.

"I know, Edie," I told her softly, drawing her close with my arm. "So do I. We can't, though; not 'til Nanna's been taken to her resting place next to Papa."

Edith made a choking sound in her throat and began crying into my shoulder. I pulled her into my lap and held her close to me. A floorboard creaked in the room across from me; I looked up but saw no one. The room was dark and the sunlight slinking in through the curtains cast creepy shadows on the floorboards. I found it odd that Mr. Aickman kept the curtains drawn. You would think the sun would be welcome in a place as gloomy as this.

A door closed upstairs. Whoever it was was trying to be quiet; the footsteps were deliberately light and paused when a floorboard creaked. I looked up and tried to discern who it was in the dim light but could make out only a tall, thin figure. He came into the light from an upstairs window, and I recognized the figure as Jonah Aickman. Somehow our eyes met, and I looked away embarrassed. Jonah proceeded to descend down the stairs, and much to my horror he was still looking at me. I glanced around the corner into the crowded parlor to make sure my mother was not around. The last thing I wanted was for her to see me near Jonah and drag Edith and me back into the throng of mourners.

"H-Hello," Jonah greeted me timidly. He managed a small smile then seemed to realize smiling wasn't quite right for the occasion.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said awkwardly. His gaze was cast to the floor near my feet.

"Thank you," I answered. Edith looked up at Jonah from my shoulder and then resumed sniffling into my dress.

"Did you... do you go to Goatswood School? I thought I recognized you from my classes..."

"Jonah!" Mr. Aickman's stern voice cut in. "Come here, son."

Jonah's eyes widened as though he had been caught doing something wrong. He gave me a slight nod and hurried to Mr. Aickman's side. They disappeared around a corner.

I hesitated to call Mr. Aickman Jonah's father. I knew nothing of their relationship other than Mr. Aickman had adopted Jonah and given him his last name. I was unsure of Mr. Aickman's past before Jonah. For as long as I could remember he'd lived by himself – no wife, no children, no other family that I knew of. Jonah had lived with Mr. Aickman for almost four years; I was thirteen when Jonah made his first appearance in Goatswood.

"Clara, I need to go to the potty," Edith whimpered. She sat up, wiping the tears from her face. I nodded and stood, taking her hand and walking in the direction Mr. Aickman and Jonah had gone. I recalled there being a powder room beneath the large staircase.

As I waited on Edith, I risked a peek around the corner. All I saw was an empty kitchen, but there were muffled voices coming from further below.

"...do not want to go," Jonah mumbled.

"It is crucial, Jonah, if we..." It was Mr. Aickman's voice.

"...the jobs and the séances... never sleep at night... not her." Jonah was complaining about something. I could make out only fragments of what was being said and got the impression I should not have been hearing the conversation regardless. After standing outside the powder room for several more minutes, I knocked lightly on the door.

"Edith?" I called quietly. It was just loud enough for Mr. Aickman and Jonah to hear. The voices fell silent and footsteps came up the basement stairs. Edith opened the powder room door and emerged, her face dry and fresh again. Jonah came past me first and then Mr. Aickman. Jonah looked rigid and uncomfortable, and the glance he cast in my direction was pitiful. Mr. Aickman gave me a suspicious look as though he knew I had been listening to them talk.

"Ah, Mr. Aickman!" My uncle Nick came out of the parlor, his expression stoic and his tone business-like. Uncle Nick was usually very laid back and playful, quite unlike the Uncle Nick I saw now. Why, he looked almost as stern as Mr. Aickman.

Uncle Nick leaned against a large wardrobe in the foyer as he spoke to Mr. Aickman. I wasn't quite sure what they were talking about. I wasn't listening, only watching. With Edith, I went into the empty parlor room and sat down on the seats beneath the window. It provided me with the perfect vantage point.

Mr. Aickman was stiff and aloof. Everything about his mannerisms was strictly professional and impersonal. I supposed it would be hard though, owning a funeral home and _not _being impersonal. Surely Mr. Aickman knew everyone that came to rest on his metal gurney. It would be too hard to have attachments when you had a job like that.

Jonah looked plain nervous. He stood awkwardly by Mr. Aickman's side, his eyes darting around and looking at no one or nothing in particular. Occasionally his gaze would fall near Edith or me, and my stomach leapt at these moments. There was something about him... He looked so _lonesome_, almost to the point where he was afraid. He seemed to long for someone to speak to him and pull him away from Mr. Aickman. Someone at the very least should acknowledge he was there. Uncle Nick would not look at Jonah. Uncle Nick thought he was a freak, yet regarded Mr. Aickman no lower than he might regard the leader of a circus.

Uncle Nick and Mr. Aickman shook hands and dispersed. Mr. Aickman's eyes went to my direction, which made my stomach lurch even harder than when Jonah looked in my direction. He had a piercing stare, Mr. Aickman. I felt as though he could look right through me and know all of my innermost thoughts and intentions.

I sat quietly with Edith for what seemed hours, all the while having an eerie feeling of someone staring at me. Whether it was Mr. Aickman, Jonah, or someone else I did not know. I refused to look in the direction the stare was coming from. Finally, people began to file out of the funeral parlor toward the door. Louisa came into the parlor where Edith and I sat to tell us it was time for the burial.

* * *

The light blue sky and crisp autumn sun provided a strange contrast to the morbidity of the occasion. Brother Daniel, the pastor of the church my family attended, was saying a final prayer over my grandmother's casket. I felt hopelessly glum and bit my tongue so as to avoid crying. My mother had forced me to the forefront of the crowd, beside her and behind my younger brother Thomas, so that I was but inches from the gaping hole of the grave. It was as though my mother was trying to force me forward in the hopes the grave would swallow me instead of her mother. If Thomas went with me it would be all the better.

A breeze blew strangely low to the ground, whipping around my stockinged ankles and swirling a stray leaf away to my right. Mr. Aickman and Jonah lurked in the distance beneath a large cedar tree. I watched the leaf scurry and fall next to Jonah's shoe. He looked up, our eyes met, and I looked down. Something about him scared me a little. Jonah was awfully rigid, as he had been earlier, and had a fearful look in his eyes. They were such a startling shade of blue, not a color one was accustomed to seeing in the irises of another person. It fit, I supposed, an unnatural boy having an unnatural eye color. Mr. Aickman appeared oddly relaxed, given his usual austere demeanor, and looked to be perplexed by something only he could see. He was quite creepy, I decided. Everything about him unsettled me, from his old-fashioned beard to his dark, beady eyes to his cold, bony hands. My father had made me shake his hand before leaving the funeral home, and the cold tingle that shot through my body when I clasped Mr. Aickman's hand was one of the most unpleasant things I had ever felt.

"...And now for the family, for the loved ones and friends we ask that there might be a casting of our care upon you to find comfort in the knowledge that our dear sister in Christ is now with You. We ask that you would comfort and strengthen in the days ahead. Help the family and friends to rest and draw strength from You. These things we ask in the name of the King of kings and Lord of lords, Christ our Savior. Amen."

Even before Brother Daniel finished the prayer, my gaze was drawn back to the cedar tree. I was slightly startled by what I saw. Mr. Aickman and Jonah were gone.

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Reviews are very much appreciated! What do you like? What can I improve?


	2. Chapter 2

I was on a camping trip last week and in my time without Internet I mapped out this entire story. This is a short chapter, but it serves a purpose.

Thanks to Jo Nahmanaick for reading and encouraging.

* * *

"Clara! Louisa! Go fetch the clothes from the line and hang these, will you?" my mother called from the front porch.

"Yes, ma'am!" Louisa answered. She and I set our homework down on the dining table and went out through the screen door.

Our mother was there in her usual chair, having just finished wringing out the last of the week's laundry. Thomas and my father were on the front lawn playing catch. Louisa took the full basket of laundry to be hung, and I took the empty basket. Although laundry was not my favorite chore, I was thankful for being called away from my homework. Over the past few days since my grandmother's funeral, I had been unable to concentrate much at all. Despite my best efforts, thoughts of the Aickmans would not leave my mind.

"Louisa?" I asked hesitantly, turning to see that my mother was not within earshot. The issue was pressing on my mind. Perhaps a second opinion would help put my mind at rest. Louisa and I set to work pulling clothespins and linens off the clothesline.

"Hmm?" Louisa answered absently.

"Did you... at Nanna's funeral... did you notice anything... _odd _about Mr. Aickman or Jonah?"

Louisa gave me a questioning look as though she thought I was out of it. "Yes. Of course."

"Really?" I asked, surprised. Louisa was not known for being particularly observant.

"Yes, Clara. _They live in a funeral home_."

"That is _not_ what I mean, Lou." I sighed. "I am talking about the way they act. Did you not notice how... scared Jonah looked?"

"Maybe he was seeing _ghosts_," Louisa answered sarcastically. She put special emphasis on "ghosts" by wiggling her fingers at me and making a low moaning sound.

"You are terrible. People like you are the reason Mr. Aickman took Jonah out of school." I did not bother to hide my irritation with Louisa's attitude.

"I am not so sure of that. I think Mr. Aickman took Jonah out of school because he is ashamed to have a son that-"

"Stop, Louisa!" I cut her off. This conversation would go nowhere with her. Louisa, like my mother, was too close-minded to do anything other than ridicule Jonah.

"Forget I ever mentioned Mr. Aickman and Jonah, all right?" I asked, hoisting up the full basket of clean laundry. Louisa rolled her eyes and nodded. I left her as she finished hanging the last of the wet laundry.

* * *

My family's home was one of the newest in our neighborhood. That is to say, it had not stood at the turn of the century. It was a six-room carpenter-style home with large windows and a wide porch. Although my family's home had a washroom equipped with a claw-foot tub and pedestal sink, there was no toilet. That was simply one of the quirks my parents had accepted when they bought the home; it had indoor plumbing _and _an outhouse.

We had money, but we were by no means wealthy. My father was an accountant at the Goatswood Bank, which made him just enough money to own a home and buy my siblings and me nice gifts at our birthdays and Christmas. In the summer we afforded one trip to the ocean, during which all my mother did was complain about the heat. She never went to lengths to hide her dissatisfaction, my mother. If she disliked or disapproved of someone or something, you could count on hearing about it. My father was the opposite; he simply would not discuss the matter.

That was why, as I approached my parents at the dining table now, I was more than apprehensive about what their responses to my inquiries would be.

"Mama? Daddy?" I kept a short distance from them and waited for one or the other to beckon me to come forward.

"Yes. What is it, Clara?" my father responded, pulling out the chair to his left and gesturing for me to sit down. My mother was sitting to his right. I was unsure of what my parents had been discussing prior to my interruption, but it had something to do with politics or economics. My mother had a vacant look in her eyes, which was her normal state when my father talked about such things.

"I... I wanted to ask a question, but... I don't want you to be cross about it." I could not bring myself to make direct eye contact with either one of my parents.

"Why would we be cross about it, dear?" my mother asked.

"It's about the Aickmans..." I murmured, and I braced myself for the aftershock.

"Clara Vance, you know good and well we do not talk about that man and that boy in this house!" my mother snapped. "If I could have had my way, my mother never would-"

"What was the question?" my father interrupted. He gave my mother an irritated glance.

"What do you know about Jonah? When Mr. Aickman first brought him to Goatswood, do you remember anything being said about where Jonah came from or why Mr. Aickman adopted him?"

"Goodness, Clara, why do you-" my mother began sharply.

"No, Clara. Four years ago, Ramsey Aickman announced that he would be going away for some time and made arrangements with the funeral home in Milton to take all of the area business while he was gone. He left, and two months later he returned to Goatswood with a boy the same age as you. All Aickman said was that he had adopted the boy, and... let's say that it did not take long for anyone to realize the boy was an eccentric."

My father looked down to his lap as he finished speaking. He did not look at my mother, who sat with her lips pursed in disapproval.

"'Eccentric' is not the word I would use..." my mother said under her breath.

My father's use of "the boy" instead of "Jonah" had not escaped my notice. My father was not as superstitious as my mother, but I knew that he did not like what Mr. Aickman and Jonah did. Nobody in my family did. I seemed to be the only one who did not think them inherently evil for holding séances in their parlor. What was the harm in it, really?

"It is time for you to get ready for bed," my mother ordered, shaking me out of my reflections.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, and left the table to wash and change for bed. I trusted what my father had told me, but I sensed that he knew more than he let on. Whether or not that was true I knew I would never learn. Not around my mother anyhow.

* * *

"The Aickmans, Clara? Why would you concern yourself about them?" Martha asked me, a near disgusted expression on her face.

As neither Louisa nor my parents wanted to talk about the Aickmans, and I knew asking anyone else in my family would be fruitless, I had resorted to my last refuge of valued opinions: Martha and Don. Both had been my close friends since our mothers first brought us together to play as babies. Neither would pick at Jonah; before Jonah came to Goatswood, Martha was teased for her lisp and Don was teased for being frail and sickly.

Earlier this morning, it being a Saturday, I had retrieved them both from their homes and led them to the park. After the three of us decided which walking path to take, I asked Martha and Don if they had ever noticed anything odd about the Aickmans. I was sure to specify that I meant something odd beyond living in a funeral home and holding séances. Of all people, I expected Martha and Don to understand my motivations as being casual and somewhat investigative. At the moment, however, neither one of them understood my inquiry into Ramsey and Jonah Aickman. Don was shuffling along behind me, giving me an inquisitive look, whereas Martha had stopped walking and looked a bit concerned.

"Well, I don't know," I answered truthfully. "It's just a hunch."

"A hunch that will get you where, exactly?" Don asked skeptically.

"I was not planning on it _getting _me anywhere, I just want to know-"

"But why the sudden interest? You knew Jonah for four years in school and never said a word to him. He's strange, Clara, and so is his father. It would be best for you to mind your own business," Martha said sharply.

Martha and Don had never been so jumpy at a conversation before. I knew that the Aickmans were two of the most gossiped-about people in the county. Admittedly, a family consisting of a mortician for a father and a medium for a son _was _worthy of discussion, but that was not why I wanted to talk about the Aickmans. It was Jonah himself that intrigued me. My fascination was partly with what he could allegedly do and partly with the excitement that came with him being so mysterious and frightful. How could a boy who talked to the dead look as though he was afraid of his own shadow?

I realized then that the only way for me to learn more about Jonah would be to learn more from the primary source: Jonah himself.

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Read and review. What did you like? What can I do better?


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to Jo Nahmanaick for reading and encouraging.

* * *

Every Saturday, local farmers brought their produce into Goatswood to sell. Everyone in Goatswood went to the farmer's market. Not only was the market a place to purchase food, but it was also a place to gossip and socialize. It was, I thought, the perfect opportunity to speak to Jonah.

My mother had sent me off in search of potatoes, tomatoes, and onions. She had sent Thomas along with me, which I was not thrilled about, but as soon as my mother was out of sight he went off to play ball with a group of his friends. Thomas was a boisterous and aggressive eleven-year-old who thus far had shown an interest only in baseball and fighting. He was not at all the type of person I enjoyed being around.

I made my way past a group of young girls playing hopscotch on the pavement and then four middle-aged women hushing their gossip with their handkerchiefs. All the while I searched for the shock of black hair or the grey wool suit I would recognize as Jonah's. I approached Mr. Blackwell's stand; Mr. Blackwell and my father knew each other from their youth, and he was the farmer my family purchased a majority of our vegetables from.

"Clara!" Mr. Blackwell put out his cigarette and came to greet me, turning away from the group of men he was talking to. "You here by yourself?"

"No, sir," I answered. "Mama sent me after the vegetables. Her and Daddy are by the tailor's shop."

Mr. Blackwell was a middle-aged man in his late forties. Whenever I saw him, he was wearing the same worn-out white shirt, faded brown pants, suspenders, and work boots. His hair was beginning to grey and recede. He was a kind, honest man; I had always liked him.

"I heard about your grandmother," he said sympathetically. "Let your family know I have kept you all in my prayers, would you?"

"Of course," I answered, slightly startled. It took me a moment to remember why Mr. Blackwell would be praying for us. My grandmother was dead. Sometimes I forgot.

"Umm..." I mumbled. "Mama wanted potatoes, onions, and tomatoes to last the week..."

I had forgotten exactly how many she wanted. It would be so much easier if she would just write it down for me, as I could never remember what came in bushels or pounds or cartons or whatnot. A brisk wind wafted down the street, blowing my mousy brown hair across my face. I was one of few girls my age who still had long hair; my parents disapproved of short hair on a lady. I wished my hair were bobbed, as I thought it would distract from the plainness of my hair.

As Mr. Blackwell sorted out vegetables, my eyes wandered around at the people surrounding me. There were the little girls playing hopscotch, women gossiping, mothers pulling fussy children by the hand, men undoubtedly debating politics judging from the raised voices and waving arms... Jonah kicking at a rock near the edge of the crowd. Mr. Aickman was not within sight.

"Mr. Blackwell?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"I am going to go find Thomas... He went off to play ball with his friends, but he is supposed to help me carry the food. Do you mind keeping the bags here a bit?"

"Not at all," Mr. Blackwell shrugged. I muttered a quick "thank you" and turned to meander my way toward Jonah. I did not want to go directly toward him, in case someone saw me or Mr. Aickman made a sudden appearance nearby. If I made it look as though I had just so happened to cross paths with Jonah, I would perhaps not be as obvious.

There was a group of girls playing nearby. I acted as though I was heading toward them, perhaps searching for Edith, all the while watching Jonah out of the corner of my eye. He did not seem to notice me. I looked around one last time to see that the coast was clear and approached him.

"Hello," I said politely. Jonah flinched and kicked his rock out of sight, looking at me wearily.

"Hi," he answered, unsure of the situation.

"Did you, umm... We talked at my grandmother's funeral. I do not know if you remember. You were about to tell me something when your father pulled you aside."

What came out of my mouth sounded as nervous as I felt. Jonah was like a forbidden fruit. My mother would faint if she knew who I was speaking to. That made the situation exciting, which in turn made me nervous. Jonah seemed to be trying to decipher my motives for the conversation.

"I was just saying hello is all, and Aickman is not my father." Jonah twitched at the last part of his sentence. I got the impression that I made him uncomfortable.

"Oh. Well... how are you then?" I asked in a desperate attempt at conversation. Jonah's hands were thrust into his pockets and his body language indicated he wanted to be left alone; however, I could not leave him alone. He did not look mad or displeased with me being there, just... anxious.

"Splendid," he responded. It was either sarcasm or a very flat form of joy.

"I do not think you are a freak," I told him. "I am not here to pick at you either. I just want to talk to you."

"Aickman does not like me talking to people," Jonah said sourly.

"Do you always do everything he tells you?"

"No. Not always." Jonah had yet to make eye contact with me, but he did not even look in my direction when he spoke this time.

"Do you not like him?" I asked, picking up on Jonah's obvious disdain for his adoptive father.

Jonah was silent for a moment, contemplating the ground. We walked together some feet down the road, a bit further out of sight of everyone else. I thought perhaps Jonah wanted to make sure he was not within earshot of everyone else.

"No," he said finally. "He's strange."

"You're strange," I shrugged. "Is that a reason not to like you?"

"That is not the same," Jonah replied. There was a defensive air about him now. "You said you were not here to pick at me."

"I am not. I am just curious about what you mean."

"Why are you so nosy?" Jonah shot back. "You ask too many questions."

"I do not!" I protested. "I am only trying to get you to talk."

"Do not most people our age talk about... music or something?" Jonah walked over to a nearby bench and sat down, at last taking his hands out of his pockets.

"What music do you listen to?" I asked, sitting down beside him.

"The kind played at funerals," he said bluntly. "Aickman does not like music. It might make him feel something."

There was an emotional undertone to Jonah's words that I could not identify. Was it contempt, sarcasm, mockery, hatred? Perhaps it was a combination of the four; whatever it was, the feelings were not positive ones.

"Do you ever go to the park?" I asked.

"Rarely. Aickman keeps me busy with our work."

"There are not that many people dying in Goatswood," I said skeptically.

Jonah fell silent again. Whatever thoughts crossed his mind troubled him.

"You would be surprised as to how time-consuming it is," he said finally.

"Well if you ever have the _time_," I began, putting a sarcastic emphasis on time, "you should come to the little pond in the park. It's nice there, especially in the spring with the baby ducks."

"Right. Ducks," Jonah repeated as though ducks were frightening creatures.

"Did Mr. Aickman send you after something? Or were you loitering when I found you?" I hoped Jonah caught that I was not serious about the loitering.

"He sent me after some things. I am not in a hurry to go back to him, though."

I desperately wanted to ask him about the séances. It would be rude. I could not just ask him if he _really _could see and talk to the dead. To be honest, I was somewhat afraid of the answer. There was something peculiar about Jonah and the way he spoke of Mr. Aickman, certainly. I did not know if I believed it had something to do with Jonah's alleged abilities.

"Well... I should go and find my brother. I told Mr. Blackwell that I was going to find him to help me carry our groceries, although I do not know where Thomas went off to."

I could spot no group of boys Thomas's age playing baseball nearby.

"The cemetery," Jonah said. "Look in the churchyard by the cemetery."

"Oh... Did you see them there?" I could not think of why the boys would be there. It was a bit out of the way from the town center where the farmer's market was held.

Jonah briefly made eye contact with me for the first time since we had started talking. "No. I was told."

I debated whether or not to say anything else; specifically, I wanted to know who exactly had told Jonah the boys were playing in the churchyard. Jonah kept sneaking glances at me and did not act as though he planned to leave the bench.

"You have a good day," I said finally, stood, and went off toward the cemetery. There was always that off chance Jonah was playing a joke on me, but he did not seem the type. What was the harm in risking it anyway?

* * *

The old brick church came into sight as I rounded the corner past the cemetery. To my left was a tall, wrought iron fence enclosing nearly two centuries' worth of graves. The cemetery had an undeniably eerie feeling; I felt as though I was being watched, perhaps even followed through the divide of the metal bars. Once I had been told that the iron fence around the cemetery had been constructed in order to contain the spirits within. In that vein of thought, if the iron fence was indeed effective, I wondered just how many souls were trapped in the cemetery that longed to be set free.

At first glance, the church and surrounding churchyard appeared empty. I walked once around the church just to be sure that the boys had not seen me coming and hidden. Raucous laughter from behind me gave them away. I turned to see the boys playing in the cemetery.

"Bernard! Catch!" a husky redheaded boy shouted. He threw the baseball high into the hair, and the boy called Bernard jumped onto a large stone monument to catch it. The ball narrowly missed hitting the monument's angel in the head.

Surely the boys knew better than this. I spotted Thomas laughing off to the redhead's right, obviously enjoying himself and the new sport he and his friends had created. Bernard threw the ball to a boy closer to the center of the cemetery, who fell backwards over a slate headstone and did not catch the ball. I cringed when I heard the headstone crack and fall. The boys did not regret this at all; they merely laughed even louder.

"Thomas!" I shouted. "Thomas, come here _now_!"

I did not know if he would listen to me. All of the boys - I counted six - turned in my direction, their laughter silenced. Thomas took a few steps in my direction, and once he recognized me he came running to the fence.

"How did _you_ know we were here?" Thomas asked. The look in his eyes was both surprised and disgruntled.

"That doesn't matter. What are you doing here? If Daddy knew you were here and what you and your friends are doing, he would skin you-"

"Snitch!" Thomas interrupted. "You are going to snitch, aren't you?"

"Tom, your friend just destroyed someone's headstone! Do you know how much trouble you could get into?"

Thomas walked around to the cemetery gate, opened it, and advanced toward me.

"_I _was never here," Thomas said menacingly. He often tried to threaten me into getting his way, but I knew he would not hit me. Our father would strangle him if he did.

"Do you think your friends would back you up?" I asked.

"Do you think Mama and Daddy would believe you over _me_?" Thomas retorted.

"Mama knows how horrid you are. Besides, all I would have to do is show them the broken headstone, wouldn't I?"

Thomas gave me a resentful look. I gestured for him to follow me back in the direction of the town square; he shouted goodbye to his friends and ran after me to catch up. All the way back to Mr. Blackwell's stand he muttered under his breath about me being an awful person, sister, and above all, a snitch.

* * *

I wasn't so sure about this chapter, but I think it turned out alright. Read and review, please! To all my lurkers: don't be shy! At least let me know that you're reading.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to Jo Nahmanaick for reading and encouraging.

* * *

Several months passed in which I caught not a glimpse of Jonah Aickman. The passing of time, naturally, dampened my curiosity about Jonah's situation. Each Saturday I went to the farmer's market with my family and kept an eye out for Jonah. Always was I fruitless in my search. Eventually I stopped bothering to look at all.

School was what primarily occupied my thoughts. Although I was not always the most enthusiastic student, I did have a craving to learn. I was especially gifted in math and was placed in the most rigorous courses occupied mostly by my male peers. I put my full efforts into my schooling, which Louisa claimed made me dry and dull. My "dryness and dullness" was the supposed reason I had few friends, although I did not consider myself to be either the former or the latter. Why, then, were Martha and Don my sole companions? Truth be told, I was too nosy. My craving to learn tied into my innate desire to know everything about everyone. I was no gossip, to be sure, but I was a compulsive eavesdropper and ceaseless inquisitor. Most found these traits annoying.

It was in this way that I learned of the vandalism in the town cemetery. Of course I suspected I would eventually hear of it, as I supposed the day I found Thomas and his friends playing in the cemetery was not the first time they had been there. However, it seemed that something more sinister than boys playing ball was occurring in the cemetery. Those who lived near it claimed to be woken in the night by strange noises from within the iron gates. Shadows and faint lights were seen, flowers were cast about, statuettes were smashed, the earth was disheveled. One girl, Jane Callahan, claimed she knew _for a fact _that Mr. Aickman and his "creepy son" were holding séances there in the night with their "band of followers."

Quite a stir was caused in Goatswood in the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas, when an obscure silent movie star called Sal Novaro arrived in Goatswood to attend a séance at the Aickman Mortuary. Not an hour after entering the place, Novaro had run out of the house screaming in hysterics. No explanation was given for Novaro's fit, although it upset a good part of the surrounding residents. After Novaro left, Goatswood fell quiet again.

Christmas approached and then passed. My family gathered with my mother's siblings and their families and then again with my father's side of the family. I received a bit of fruit, some candy, two new dresses, and a pair of stockings to replace my most worn pair. Louisa and Thomas were given similar lots, although Thomas received a shirt, pants, and shoes in place of the two dresses. Edith, however, was laden with candy and fruit and received a new dress, a new doll for her growing collection, a doll bed, and several doll outfits. My mother had insisted on showing Edith off for the holidays in her neatest dresses and with the bounciest curls; Louisa, Thomas, and I, as usual, were for the most part ignored by our mother. Our father, thankfully, recognized my mother's favoritism and made a point of spending more time than usual with the three of us. At the least, he was not thoroughly captivated by Edith's cherubic charm.

* * *

It was a Tuesday afternoon in early March when the weather first began to show signs of livening up. It had been a grey, gloomy winter, bringing with it the usual proliferation of snow. After school let out I had come straight to the park without bothering to drop my books off at the house; it was too nice a day, and I did not want my mother inhibiting me with chores or Louisa keeping me with bothersome chatter.

There was a large cedar tree by the pond in the park that I loved to go to. The branches on the side of the tree facing the pond were disproportionately long, reaching out like gnarled arms toward the water. They provided a nice bit of shade and today served as the spot under which I sat to do my homework.

Birds chirped in the limbs above me and Nature breathed life back into the browned grass and leaves of the landscape. I spotted few flowers struggling to bloom; indeed, spring was always slow to come in Goatswood.

_Jane Eyre _was the novel I was reading for my English class. I quite liked Jane, I had decided. I admired her for being headstrong, determined, and intelligent. Neither she nor Mr. Rochester were handsome, which I appreciated. It was not that I did not appreciate attractive characters; rather, being plain myself, I grew tired of reading about the handsome, dashing, and elegant characters so typical in romances.

I opened my book and began to read, tuning out all around me. I succeeded in reading nearly thirty pages before a loud cracking noise behind me caused me to start and turn. My first thought was that Louisa or Thomas had been sent to find me. The noise had come from neither of them; instead, I turned to see Jonah Aickman standing a distance behind me. He looked startled as though the cracking had surprised him as much as it had surprised me.

"Did you step on a branch?" I asked, marking my page in _Jane Eyre_ and setting the book down atop my others.

"Y-Yes," Jonah stuttered. Why must he look so fearful?

"Oh," I shrugged. "Do you want to come sit down?"

"I suppose," Jonah mumbled. I could not tell whether he was being shy or only sitting with me to be polite. Regardless, his sudden appearance had piqued my interest in him once more.

"Where have you been?" I asked him. "The last time I saw you was that day at the farmer's market."

Jonah sat down to my left, just out of arm's reach of me. Was he afraid I would reach out and touch him? I hardly knew. He was wearing his usual dreary uniform of black and grey; grey pants, black shirt, grey suspenders, black shoes. His skin was so pale that Jonah was nearly grey himself. I thought he looked a bit sickly, but that could have been a result of his apparent severe lack of exposure to sunlight. The only thing not grey or black about him was his shockingly blue eyes.

"Aickman keeps me busy," Jonah answered curtly. Like the last time we spoke, Jonah did not make eye contact with me.

"Did he finally decide to let you out of the house today?" I asked. I stretched my legs out in front of me and leaned against the trunk of the cedar tree. Jonah's general air of stuffiness inspired me to be more relaxed.

"No. I left without asking."

"Won't he be mad at you?" Mr. Aickman did not seem the type of authority who would put up with such actions.

"If he discovers I left he might be."

That was a strange answer. "Do you not expect him to?"

"He's enjoying his... _leisure time_." Jonah expressed obvious distaste for whatever his adoptive father was doing at present.

"Oh. Well what brought you here?"

Jonah shrugged. "I came to see the ducks."

"It's early for the ducks. I have yet to see a single baby duck."

"They will be around soon, I suspect." Jonah seemed to be talking in riddles.

"Did you know I was here?" I asked. This seemed an opportunity for me to question Jonah about his alleged abilities. Not directly though, of course.

"I had a feeling you might be." Jonah looked at me but did not make eye contact.

"A feeling?" I sat up straighter and looked at him curiously.

"Yes. Are you enjoying school this term?" Jonah's abrupt change of topic made it clear that he was not willing to discuss what he meant by "a feeling."

"I suppose. Do you miss being at school?" I deflected the conversation back onto Jonah. I did not wish to talk about myself; after all, I was dull and Jonah was interesting.

"Not particularly, although I do miss not spending my every waking hour under Aickman's watch," Jonah said.

"Was the teasing really why he took you out of school?"

"Somewhat. He did not want me made into an object of ridicule at school, yet has no qualms about making me his spectacle at home."

"Do you not enjoy doing the séances?"

"_No_." The answer was emphatic and quick. "I do not mind helping people to know that their loved ones are alright after they pass, but Aickman has turned me into a lucrative... _spiritual portal_."

Jonah pulled at blades of grass by his side, his thoughts obviously troubling him.

"You can really do it then? Talk to the dead?" I asked hesitantly. The question felt too personal, even for me.

"Yes. Talk to them, see them, feel them... I essentially live amongst them." Jonah looked up at me from his occupation of shredding blades of grass in his fingers. His tone was bitter and his eyes were solemn.

"I-Is there anyone here now?" I stuttered. Goosebumps rushed over my body. The fear and excitement of the fact that I was sitting next to a genuine medium had hit me.

Jonah nodded. "A few."

"Any around us?" I was not sure I actually wanted to know the answer, but I asked regardless.

"There is a man that stays near you, or at least when I am around. He has auburn hair, a beard, he's quite tall and burly, physically not older than thirty-five. Do you not know who he is?"

I must have looked as startled as I felt.

"No..." I answered uncertainly. "What is his name?"

"I don't know. He does not talk to me. He only glares."

"Is he not nice?"

"He's normally quite friendly and very protective of you. He does not like me."

"Why not?"

Jonah looked back down to the ground, so I was unable to read his expression. "He does not trust me."

I thought of asking why, but going any further on the subject would be pointless. Jonah's guard was up and he obviously did not want to discuss the man anymore.

"Can I ask you something personal?" I tried.

"It depends on how personal."

"Where did you live before Mr. Aickman adopted you?"

Jonah was silent for such a time that I thought he was not going to answer me.

"Norwich," he said finally. The word came through strained.

"In Connecticut?"

Jonah nodded.

"Is that where you're from?" I questioned.

"I wouldn't know. I was left on a beach in New York as a baby. Someone found me and took me to an orphanage."

"You were left on a beach?" I was shocked. Jonah might have been pecked at by sea gulls or washed away by the waves.

"That's what the sisters at the orphanage told me. One of the nuns, Sister Margaret, named me after Jonah in the Bible. We were both spit up on shore, see..." Jonah trailed off as though he had gone deep into thought.

"I like your name," I remarked. "It's different. I have never met anyone named Jonah other than you."

When Jonah did not respond, I pondered what to ask next. It occurred to me that Jonah might know who his parents were, depending on whether or not spirits of his family had ever visited him. I did not ask. It would be too rude and invading, I thought.

"How did you get to Norwich if you were in an orphanage in New York?" I asked. It seemed a natural enough question.

"I was adopted by a family in Connecticut." Jonah clenched his jaw.

"What happened?" I regretted asking as soon as the words came out of my mouth. I could tell I had touched a raw nerve.

Jonah continued clenching his jaw and tearing at blades of grass. There was a visible difference now between the grass around me and the grass around him.

"You ask too many questions, Clara." Jonah sounded defensive, almost angry. I turned away and looked back toward my book, suddenly wishing that Jonah would leave so that I could go back to reading.

"I'm sorry," I muttered.

"We should both be going," Jonah said after an extended silence. "Aickman might contact the police if I am gone too long, thinking I have run away, and your mother is strict too, no?"

"She will only fuss because I was not there to help my sister with the chores." Being disciplined by my mother was the furthest thing from my mind right now.

"Well..." Jonah stood and brushed off his pants. "I am going. Are you planning to come back here this week or the next?"

My heart leaped, although I did not know why. Jonah wanted to come back and talk to _me_?

"I suppose. If the weather stays nice."

"I can try to come back. I will not promise anything, though. Have a nice evening."

Jonah rushed off in such a way that made me think I had done something wrong. Why did he have to be so mysterious? I looked over at my books, which I knew I would not be looking at anymore today, picked them up, and stood to walk home. Conversations with Jonah gave me far more to think about than _Jane Eyre _or trigonometry.

* * *

My mother was outside sweeping the porch when I arrived home. The sun was setting and I had a feeling I would be in trouble for coming home so late, and never even telling anyone where I was going after school at that. On second thought, I remembered telling Louisa I was going to the park. Judging by the look on my mother's face when she saw me, however, I knew Louisa likely had forgotten.

"Clara Vance!" my mother shouted. "Where _on earth _have you been?"

* * *

Reviews make me happy!


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to Jo Nahmanaick for reading and encouraging.

* * *

"At the park, Momma," I answered truthfully, unsure of the scale of the trouble I was in.

"The park-? Clara! Why didn't you come home after school? You _know _you have chores and responsibilities around here! I would expect Louisa to forget that before you." My mother propped her broom against the porch railing and gave me a stern look. I faltered under her stare and cast my gaze to the ground, my books held awkwardly at my side.

"Get in the house," my mother directed. Once inside, I went straight to the bedroom I shared with my sisters. Louisa was there on her bed, flipping through a catalogue.

"_Louisa_," I hissed. "You said you would tell Momma where I was going!"

"What?" Louisa looked at me blankly. "You never told me where you were going. You turned in another direction as we were walking home and did not say a word to me."

"That is not true! I told-" I stopped short. It was pointless to argue with Louisa over what I had and had not done. I shook my head in aggravation and stalked into the kitchen. I found my mother there stirring a pot of beef and vegetable stew, judging by the aroma. She must have heard the floorboards creak as I approached.

"Are you going to tell me why you were at the park?" my mother inquired sharply. She did not turn away from the stew.

"It was a nice day. I wanted to read by the pond."

"Were you there by yourself?" My mother dipped her wooden ladle into the stew, tasted of it, and turned the gas off on the stove. Supper was evidently done.

"No..." I answered honestly, not sure of what my story would be. I could not tell her I had been with Jonah.

"I know you were not with Don. He came by to ask for help with his math. Will you set the table please?"

I got six bowls and cups from the cupboard, handed them to my mother, and then retrieved the spoons and napkins from the cupboard drawer. I hoped my mother would ask no more questions on the subject of the park, and that none of this would be brought up to my father. The odds were not in my favor that evening.

All was well until my family began eating. I had been eating not even five minutes when my mother resumed questioning me about my whereabouts that afternoon.

"Are you going to tell your father and me who you were with at the park today?"

My mother spoke quietly. Her quiet tone was often more intimidating than her snappy or angry tones. The quiet seemed to imply a suppressed rage, although I knew I had done nothing to warrant that.

"Martha," I said quickly.

"You are lying," my mother said. "Either about being with Martha or that you went to the park to read."

"I truly did go to the park to read." I now felt uncomfortable. Louisa and Thomas were watching me with humored expressions.

"I bet she was with a _boy_," Thomas sneered, wrinkling his nose. The freckles scattered across his nose and cheekbones gave him an impish quality.

"I was not with a boy!" I protested.

"Who was it? I cannot think of anyone who is interested in _you_..." Louisa added. I felt my face growing red.

"Stop!" my father said sternly, looking pointedly at Thomas and Louisa. "I don't want to hear anything else about it. Please, everyone, eat."

My mother acted as though she was going to say something more to me but pursed her lips and decided against it. She knew I had not done anything wrong; she only cared because I had not been at home to help Louisa with chores. I was not questioned about my whereabouts and activities at the park for the rest of the evening.

* * *

I went to the park each day after school half expecting to see Jonah by the pond. Of course now I was sure to drop my books off at home – at least the ones I would not need – and complete one or two easy chores before escaping to the park. Eight school days passed before Jonah again found me at my spot beneath the cedar tree. It was another of those bright, airy days where everything felt fresh and alive. There were still, however, no baby ducks to be found.

Footsteps came from behind me. I did not have to mark my place in my book to know who the footsteps belonged to.

"Hello, Jonah," I greeted him casually. He came and sat beside me at his previous beyond-arm's-length spot.

"Hello," he said quietly.

"I see you managed to escape the mortuary again."

"The opportunity arose," Jonah shrugged. "I thought you would be here."

"You nearly got me in trouble last Tuesday," I told him, setting my book aside. "I let slip that I was at the park with someone, and I could not tell my mother I was with you. She would have been furious."

"Why?"

"Well... My mother insists that you and Mr. Aickman are Satanists, although _I _have never-"

Jonah laughed in a dry, sarcastic way. "Is that what people say about us now? That we're Satanists?"

"Just a few," I shrugged. "Most people in Goatswood only wonder about the séances in the cemetery."

"In the ceme-?" Jonah stopped short. Something passed over his face, and he looked down at the ground. "Oh. Yes. Aickman does get carried away at times..."

"What do you do at home?" I asked. "When you aren't working in the mortuary, what do you do?"

"To be honest, I spend a fair bit of my time conversing with spirits. I do not interact with many living people." There was a hint of bitterness, perhaps regret, in Jonah's voice.

"That sounds quite dreary," I remarked. "Can you not just shut them out?"

"Yes, but it takes more strength than I often have. I could never shut them out completely, regardless. They come to me even in my dreams."

"How do they know to find you?" The question sounded dumb when I asked it. I felt somewhat inferior to Jonah, although I was not sure why; it was as though he possessed a superior wisdom far beyond my reach.

Jonah shrugged in response. "I have not figured that out yet. The spirits, they know who can see them, sense them at the least... Spirits cling to those people they know can help them. Perhaps it is because I work in a funeral home, but the spirits flock to me. It becomes quite frustrating trying to do anything at all, really."

"Do you know anything else about the man with the auburn hair? The one you told me about last Tuesday?" Although I chose not to dwell on the idea of a burly man with a beard following me wherever I went, thoughts of who the man could possibly be had not been far from my mind as of late.

"No. He is here now, though. He was here before I even came. I think he is attached to you."

"Attached to me? What does that mean?" I asked. The thought was alarming.

"Most everyone has a spirit who is attached to them. Think of them as a guardian angel of sorts. There is usually a connection between the spirit and the person, but not always."

Instead of tearing at the grass, today Jonah was preoccupied with his shoelaces. He laced and relaced his shoelaces in intricate patterns as he spoke, occasionally hazarding a glance in my direction.

"What sort of connection?" I turned to face him, now intrigued by the concept.

"A deceased relative perhaps, or just a spirit looking out for you. There was a little girl whose parents brought her to a séance once. The little girl claimed to have a friend, a young man, who played with her often. The little girl's parents could never find the young man and thought it was a ghost haunting the land they lived on. He wasn't attached to the land, though; he was attached to the little girl."

"What was their connection?" I inquired.

"He was her brother in her last life." Jonah ceased playing with his shoelaces and looked at me somberly. "The little girl's parents did not believe me. They said it was nonsense."

"I am not sure I believe you."

"I would not expect you to," Jonah answered flatly. "You believe only what is written in the Bible, yes?"

I nodded. "We are given only one life."

"Do you believe everything you read?"

I opened my mouth and closed it, not sure of how to respond. When had our conversation taken a turn toward questioning my religious beliefs?

"I do not wish to debate theology with you, Jonah. You have gotten very off topic. I asked you what you like to do, and I mean aside from communicating with the dead, which you do not act as though you enjoy at all." I made sure my tone was matter-of-fact.

"The gift is not entirely bad." Jonah resumed playing with his shoelaces. "I like to read and draw."

"Is that all?" I asked.

"You sound surprised. I do not have as much leisure time as you, Clara," Jonah said. He was a bit snappy in his response.

"What do you draw?"

"Whatever comes to mind, I suppose. Sometimes things that spirits show me or things I see in my dreams..." Jonah fell quiet. He acted as though he had told me a secret he now regretted telling me.

"Are you good at it?" I asked.

"That depends on what you compare it to. I can bring you my sketchbook next time if you promise not to laugh at it."

"Oh, yes! Please do!" I said, more excitedly than I intended. Being rather unartistic myself, I had always envied those who could do things like draw and paint. The prospect of someone as mysterious as Jonah letting me take a peek into his mind via his artwork was exciting.

"What do you like to do? I know you like to read," Jonah responded. At last he turned himself toward me, biting his bottom lip as he did so.

I thought for a moment. "I like to travel, or I think I should anyway. I have always wanted to visit Britain and France, perhaps Italy as well. My family goes to Hammonasset Beach every summer, and I do like that very much."

"Can you swim?" Jonah asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice. I did not know what to make of that.

"Not very well, but I manage to keep myself afloat. Can you?"

"I could when I was small," Jonah replied thoughtfully. "I do not know if I still could."

"Does Mr. Aickman ever take you anywhere?" I asked.

"No," Jonah answered. "Occasionally we may visit one of his associates out of town, but we do not go anywhere for leisure. I believe Aickman enjoys his _work _too much to leave Goatswood often."

Something about the way Jonah emphasized the word "work" struck me. I got the impression that he was implying something other than mortuary duties. After all, there were not that many people dying in Goatswood.

"Jonah," I said hesitantly.

"Hmm?"

"When you speak of Mr. Aickman, I cannot help but notice that... the way you speak of him seems like... I do not know how to ask this, Jonah. Is there something... _more _that he does? Something that makes you uncomfortable?"

Jonah looked up at me, startled. He swallowed and looked back down at the ground. I noticed he had gone white, which did not seem possible with him being as pale as he was.

"You ask too many questions, Clara," Jonah muttered beneath his breath, looking out toward the pond. His tone was more solemn than I had ever heard it.

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Review, please! I know my lovely readers are out there. It would be awesome if the review count hit 20 before chapter six! *hint hint*


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